Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,—
"Is it not sweet?"
"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not. Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround the tennis-ground.
And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings.
"Four—five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry."
"I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are on. To slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning before running downstairs. At least nearly the last."
"And what is the last?"
"I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does, isn't it?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a long, long time now since last he said his prayers. And then he suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning, "the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgotten yet.
He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale turquoise thing attracts his notice.